Too much
by dervishandbanges
Summary: Hermione was just hurrying down the corridor. That's perfectly all. Just written. x


_A/N: I just wanted to tell you I am pretty alive now. Not quite yet. I saw him three times and I was just reading one genius Dramione fanfiction when this idea hit me. No copying, I just thought to myself: Hey, I'm obsessed with a blond guy too! xd Nothing is mine btw. Please R&R. I'm not sure about the language, I just wrote it, so please review and tell me if I've done anything wrong. I'm learning this way. And it's always nice for a writer to hear opinions about their work :) cheers. I'll tell you when I resurrect. Call uncle Voldie. xd_

She walked past him when she was hurrying down the corridor.

He didn't really notice her; he was looking at a girl and the look in his eyes was suggestive enough. His eyes were empty, like he was used to looking at people this way.

She didn't look at him, she just brushed her arm against his shoulder, passing by.

It was a brief and delicate touch and she wouldn't really mind – she would have minded if he had pushed her, though, and he didn't – if it wasn't for the scent. _His _scent.

Later on, many nights and many days further; she had the images of him before her eyes, like he stood before her. Leaning against the wall, his fingers playing somewhere between two upper buttons of his shirt, his fingers brushing his blonde hair, his pale face absent and tired. He was very beautiful, even then.

She forgot about the scent, though; and when she was passing by, it hit her, strong and alluring, that when she was behind him already, she turned her head quickly to take a look. A very hungry look.

His eyes then lacked the hunger that she noticed days later, when he looked at _her _(really works great for your self-esteem, noticing someone noticing you). His eyes were bored and careless, and stunningly grey.

To be honest, he _was_ stunning.

She would dream about these grey eyes looking at her; she would dream about his fingers tangling in her brown hair and his hands travelling down her back, like shivers travel down the spine. She would dream about his lips touching hers and she would dream about the buttons of his shirt being _unbuttoned._ She remembered every single dream like this and she felt she should feel bad and embarrassed about this. Well, she didn't; her wet panties didn't seem to mind, too.

Sometimes, at night, her fingers would clench tightly on her pillow.

Sometimes, at night, she would wake up gasping for air.

Before she fell asleep, she always closed her eyes and covered her face and tried to focus on a sea of milk. It was a habit. She read that it helps clarifying the thoughts. Her thoughts were never clarified; the whiteness changed into the whiteness of a shirt covering a pale body. She knew whose body it was supposed to be, but she didn't want to open her eyes. She tried not to look at him during the day; "look" isn't the proper word, "stare" would be better.

Sometimes he would catch her eye and smile in a very strange way. It was pretty suggestive, too; it made her shiver under the warm cover.

She didn't even notice him becoming her drug; she became obsessed with the staring and with inhaling _his _air whenever she was close to him. It didn't happen much; she knew he hated her and it made her eyes hot and wet. Her eyes wanted to go hot and wet whenever he heard the word "Mudblood" escape his lips just before her own name. She learned to control crying many years before; she just let herself wet a side of the pillow and dry her eyes with the sheet when the tears started to flow out of her eyes lazily and all by themselves, like the river Thames flows to and from London. She felt her eyes swollen and busy. She felt her eyes London.

Sometimes, when she was lying in her bed and covering her mouth with the cover, feeling her warm breath on the lower half of her face, she spoke his name several times; just for the pleasure of hearing it. She would think it was funny; she thought it was beautiful.

Sometimes, when she was asleep already, her lips let his name out several times or so; the words hid under the covers just like she did or filled the room and felt annoyingly loud. Well, she would feel they were loud if she could hear them. She didn't and she didn't know his name sounded like speaking it _gave _her pleasure. A lot of pleasure.

She thought it was very unreligious and she stared again.

.

She walked past him when she was hurrying down the corridor.

Her arm would brush against the fabric of his white shirt. It was a very brief and delicate touch and he made it look like he didn't notice.

He breathed her air.


End file.
